 |
| Finally escaped smallville! |
The New Yorker magazine is justly infamous for its smug but unwittingly self-parodying cover illustrations. However the December issue strikes a new low in such loathsomeness.
It depicts a disgusting cat-lady-slash-bugwoman full of metro-urban conceit. This despite the fact that the sleekly drawn image clearly reveals that her life is an obvious sham of rootless alienation, patched together by tawdry consumerism.
The young woman, of indeterminate ethnicity, checks her social media on two devices—a laptop and a smartphone—in a desperate quest for "simp juice" and the validation that her sterile life so clearly lacks.
Scattered across the floor are empty Amazon delivery boxes. discarded face masks, cat piss, and other garbage revealing the clear mismatch between her fake "virtual self" and the vile reality. Her cats look on disinterestedly and bored, confirming that this is the kind of woman who would be worst suited to motherhood.
The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes and her bed, which we can also see in her tiny apartment, is of course unmade. Elsewhere there are bottles of pills (antidepressants?) and stenching cartons of Chinese junk food that haven't been cleared away for days or possibly weeks.
The message here is obvious—the New Yorker is reaching out to its disgusting readership of rootless city office drones living lonely, unhealthy, and unfulfilling lives in tiny overpriced apartments in a dysfunctional city, and presenting their obvious failure in life as "success" in order to keep them on the "Big Apple" plantation for a few years more (by which time it will be too late for them).
No comments:
Post a Comment
Your comment will appear after it has been checked for spam, trolling, and hate speech.